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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27364132">Ardency, Accidents and Avid Anecdotes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kupfermaske/pseuds/kupfermaske'>kupfermaske</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Diefall, Dungeons &amp; Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons &amp; Dragons - All Media Types, Humblewood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Anthropomorphic, Armor, Bards, Beaches, Cats, Clerics, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hedgehogs, Injury, Injury Recovery, Love Confessions, Magic, Male-Female Friendship, Multi, Owls, Painting, Performance Art, Pigeons, Rangers, Rats &amp; Mice, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Trauma, True Love, Walks On The Beach, Wish Fulfillment, Writing, just a tiny bit of blood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:49:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,312</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27364132</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kupfermaske/pseuds/kupfermaske</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the gang relaxes on the Gaspard Isles after saving Alderheart from burning to a crisp.</p><p>--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><p>Basically a thank you letter to RunawayRobot, Bonus_Stage_Rob, Maliveth, simply_jxn and theladymea for hosting such a wonderful, fantastical campaign. And darn it, that cat and hedge need to get together!</p><p>A bit late, I know, but I look forward to seeing how The Seed of Life goes, and any D&amp;D stuff you guys decide to host in future!</p><p>RunawayRobot on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/c/RunawayRobot/featured<br/>On Twitter: https://twitter.com/RunawayRobot_</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>"Lucky" Oates and Pez Pingo, Dagonet Flollo and Everyone, Eli Briarwood/Eliza Pennygleam, Mr. Pingo/Mrs. Pingo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ardency, Accidents and Avid Anecdotes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I also couldn't remember the names of Pez's parents, so just have your generic names Bobby and Martha.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Three wicker chairs behold the honey-tangerine sunset, with the stories of those seated upon them told by their belongings.  </em>
</p><p>   Their feathers gently ruffle in the light, salty breeze whilst the warm air -- a welcoming kind -- dampens their shirts to their backs. Colourful cocktails soothe their minds as joyful tunes emanate from behind. This spot is perfect to pursue quiet methods of thoughtful recreation, as opposed to the sort of fun a certain ranger and bard prefer to stir; likely echoing across the waters where even the hardest-hearing Mapach would make sense of it.</p><p>   No-one blames them, though. They do have a story to tell. And it is one that ought to be heard, not discounting the stories of those in the three chairs.</p><p>   One has a collapsible writing desk, equipped with paperweights, inks and quills. The next one has a faithful easel, its painter’s strokes as gentle as the waves. The last one has a plumed helmet sitting atop a spotless breastplate, its stocky Strig owner having cleaned them despite its current needlessness.</p><p>  <em>  Force of habits</em>, Dagonet muses, lowering the rag to lift his glass. </p><p>
  <em>   C’est la, c’est la. </em>
</p><p>   <em> Oh well, oh well.  </em></p><p>   Belongings and habits often serve as reminders for things both good and bad; the thoughts occasionally aided by the bittersweet musings of fruity alcohol. His sips are light like Mrs Pingo’s, but Mr’s cocktail remains full. The only thing he owns that decreased in volume has been the ink in his well so far. </p><p>   Perhaps he should change that; say something. These drinks do not come cheap.</p><p>   But someone else beats him to the chase.</p><p>   "Hunbun, what do you think?” asks Martha as she leans back in her chair.</p><p>   Bobby looks up from his Gaspardic world and stands as the paintbrush and palette are lowered. He then walks over, drapes a wing on her shoulder and admires the painted, burning sky -- a welcome change to her works in replacement of a scorching, smoking earth. Dagonet can’t help but notice and smile. </p><p>   But he smiles for another, additional reason.</p><p>   "I say, I say! S’like lookin' into a mirror, m’dear," Bobby proudly exclaims, to the satisfied chuckle of his wife. </p><p>   "Though, might 'ah suggest somethin'?" he then asks.</p><p>   She nods once. “Mhm?”</p><p>   "Ya captured that island over yonder real nicely, but … that palm looks a lil’ lonely, doncha think?"</p><p>   A light hum emerges, accompanied with taps on her beak by the end of her brush. "Give it a friend? Or ... two, perhaps?"</p><p>   "Rule of three never hurts," Bobby smiles. "And they can represent us, now I think it! You, me … and our lil' Pez. Whatcha think of that? Our lil’ secret."</p><p>   "Now that’s a <em> swell </em>idea," she coos, giggling as her husband embraces her. </p><p>   "Though, can I ask somethin' else of you, too, Bob?"</p><p>   "I say, anythin', Marmar. What is it?"</p><p>   "Can you sit closer to me? Pretty please, with roasted coconut flakes on top?"</p><p>   A fond chuckle escapes him. “Ever since you tried that, you always keep eating them …”</p><p>   He says that as he glances at his writing desk and the papers held down by the weights, along with the writing tools strewn about like madman’s ravings. Of course, he would love to sit closer to his wife, so why didn’t he do so from the start? But surely, he could not carry the entire desk without scattering some things to the wind and sand.</p><p>   A third set of eyes have been watching them, though, and Dagonet smiles as he grunts and stands. "Just grab your papers, pens and chair, Monsieur Pingo. I'll carry the desk and everything else."</p><p>   The Luma pigeon doesn’t resist his offer. He quickly waddles over and grabs his things.</p><p>   “My hero!” thanks Bobby as he places his chair beside her.</p><p>   "<em>Our </em>hero," Martha lightly corrects him. The desk is placed next to her easel. "Thank you kindly, Dagonet."</p><p>   The Strig merely bows, but not too much. The gesture suffices for both them and his spine. </p><p>   He is left to return to his chair, though overhearing a last bit of conversation.</p><p>   "With a flash of his sword? A <em> whip </em> of his sword?"</p><p>   "How about … a flourish of his sword?" </p><p>   "A flourish of his sword … now that's more like it. Thank you, dear."</p><p>   "Mhm, mhm.”</p><p>   A brief pause.</p><p>   “But Bobby, hunbun?"</p><p>   "Yes, Martha love?"</p><p>   "Your pen's been drinkin' more ink than you have."</p><p>   Bobby blinks. "So it has … "</p><p>   Followed by another fit of giggles and coos, and then silence. </p><p>   Comfortable, seaside silence.</p><p>   It is no wonder why Pez is so sweet; full of sweet suggestions, sweet compliments, sweet dreams. They are sweet people.</p><p>   Good people.</p><p>   <em> And that is what we fought for</em>, sighs Dagonet as the wicker chair squeaks to accommodate him</p><p>  They fought not only for the good of the green … but also for those who are truly good. Those who found love would continue to love, and new love would spring like the blossoms in a field. All of those things -- those stories and theirs -- would continue to be because of them.</p><p>   Dagonet drinks to that. To them. To his friends. To all good things. And now his glass sits empty. He settles in his seat and soaks in the warmth. A welcoming kind of warmth, laced with bittersweet aftertaste and tune.</p><p>   But on the subject of new love, however … </p><p>   The old Strig smirks as they stroll into view. Can one of them just make a move, already? </p><p>   They’ve been at it for a week by now.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>   <em> When they met on the beach for the first time, it had been a happy accident. That evening brought forth joy as they conversed along the sand, their words as light as the sea froth. </em></p><p>   The second time it happened, it had been a pleasant surprise. They discussed things again whilst revealing deeper, hidden hues. He came out to ponder and she came out to prospect. Inward and outward thoughts, polar ideas; complementary shades, compatible colours.</p><p>   A pattern began to emerge the third time. They decidedly yet secretly agreed they liked it.</p><p>   And they still spoke on the fourth time, but that evening had hosted more waves than words.</p><p>   Then there was less distance on the fifth, and they lost track of time on the sixth.</p><p>   But on the seventh, as it comes to be, they meet with another accident.</p><p>   “Yowch!”</p><p>   A real one, that is. </p><p>   It’s only fitting that an insult is hurled at it.</p><p>   “So much for your hard-earned beach view, stupid rock!” Eli calls, placing fists on his hips. It’s perhaps not as colourful as a bird of paradise, but that will no doubt suffice. </p><p>   The bloodstained needle of a jagged stone says nothing as it splashes in the sea, where it shall forever be locked away in a watery prison to erode into nothingness for its crime. That being said, however, the blood it drew did not belong to the cleric.</p><p>   Staunching the angry puncture wound, Eliza hisses as she sits and nurses her foot. Crimson drips onto the damp sand, swirling around the granules only to be washed by the waves. Combined with the fact that her skirt is getting wet, the merchant is feeling a tad bit irked.</p><p>   Because rocks lie in wait to inflict pain, apparently. So what can they do about it?</p><p>   A gentle hand descends upon Eliza’s shoulder, causing the cat to look up and see a Hedge smiling above her. He extends his other hand and it is firm as he pulls her up, followed by wan chuckles as they make their way to a fallen palm tree.</p><p>  Eli then falls to a knee, warmly smiling as he nods at her foot, and the feline returns a similar though somewhat hesitant gesture. She relaxes, though, when he conjures a bit of water to wash away the blood and sand. And once again, his hands are gentle as holds her foot and inspects the wound.</p><p>   “Is it really bad?” Eliza sighs, sounding a touch bit worried.</p><p>   The cleric smiles as he shakes his head. “I ain’t no doctor, but so far so good. Didn’t seem to touch a bone or anything like that, much I can tell.”</p><p>   “Still hurts a lot, though. Like stepping onto the sun itself.”<br/><br/>  “Yep. The foot has a ton of nerves. Sorry about that, Eliza.”<br/><br/>  The feline chuckles at that and the hedgehog laughs, too. He truly is an interesting man.</p><p>   “<em>You’re </em>the one saying sorry?” she asks. “I mean, look at me, complaining ‘bout a tiny wound compared to what you got when fighting the Aspect. Surely, it must have hurt … hurt much more than … than this … ” </p><p>   Eliza falls quiet after that. Eli’s expression says all.</p><p>   He came out here to ponder. That’s what he’d said. Probably to think other thoughts than to remember wounds he’d prefer to forget.</p><p>   “I’m … I’m sorry, Eli.”</p><p>   To which he smiles, but heavily sighs. “It’s … it’s alright, Eliza. Just let me fix you up, then we can go back to the inn, and … yeah.”</p><p>   “Yeah … ”</p><p>   They nod. </p><p>   Thick, humid silence.</p><p>   Because what else could they say to that, after what happened; another accident?</p><p>   Her wound closes up like the threads of a cloth. She wiggles her toes and feels no pain, but her heart calls out to his injury.</p><p>   So as Eli stands and turns a fraction, she gently takes his hand. </p><p>   The cleric stops in his tracks as weary eyes rise to meet hers. He does not pull away. She feels no resistance.</p><p>   Her thumbs begin to rub the square of the Hedge’s palm. Her fingers, smooth and delicate, run over the rough ridges in his hand. Then she has one thumb massaging each of his two hands. She opens her mouth, closes it. The words come the second time.</p><p>   “Like you are no doctor, I ain’t no palm-reader, either. But I can tell a great story from just holding your hands, Eli.”</p><p>    Eli doesn’t speak, but his eyes remain on her. Eliza does not see this as she gazes at his hands. He does not pull away, so she continues to massage them, speaking like the sunset; slow, soft and warm.</p><p>   “These are hands that held mighty weapons. Swords, staves; I can feel their roughness. I can’t fully imagine the trials you faced when using those weapons to save the Humblewood, but with your hands … I can begin to grasp an idea. It must have been … so much.”</p><p>   Eli simply nods as his posture slumps slightly. The mark of a hero weighs heavily upon those who bear its title. Yet her voice -- Miss Eliza, who’d never wielded a weapon -- held pity and warm understanding. And that is something.</p><p>   “And yet, when I hold your hands and when you hug me and … when you held my foot … I feel only gentleness. Kindness. Goodness. And while many have seen these traits shine bright like stars in you … ” </p><p>   She then looks up and warmly smiles. Lovingly smiles; to rival the sun.</p><p>   “So few have felt the kind of warmth you hold in your hands. And I’m very, very fortunate to know what that warmth feels like.” </p><p>   The cat looks down once more, and with reluctance releases his hands. A certain kind of coldness invades her empty palms.</p><p>   Only to have those same warm hands reach out for hers. She glances up and sees him smiling; truly, freely smiling. He begins to do what she did to him, rubbing her palms with his two thumbs. He also stands tall again, as if he’d been reminded of something.</p><p>   And he, in fact, was reminded of something.</p><p>   “And when I hold your hands, Miss Pennygleam, I am reminded of what I fought for.”</p><p>   His thumbs glide over her palms with the tender grace of dancers. Her hand is smooth and soft, like a silken pillow cover. The waves continue their soft serenade. She, too, begins to smile and bashfully lowers her head.</p><p>   But he lets go of one hand to place a finger under her chin. He raises her gaze so he could see her eyes; those different-coloured gems.</p><p>   “And each of your eyes reminds me of two things I fought for: your golden eye reminds me of ripe mangoes and honey, and your emerald eye reminds me of palm trees and leaves.”</p><p>   What an interesting man, with an interesting view. Eliza chuckles but smiles nonetheless. Then Eli goes on to explain what he meant.</p><p>   “I fought for both the goodness and sweetness that exists in our world, as well as for the green and verdant forests that we call our home.”<br/><br/>  Eliza then feels a gentle hand warmly cradle her cheek. She begins to purr as she leans into it, tail happily swinging. He can only smile; their shared feelings laid bare. Their hearts pound against their chests, their happiness as high as the blazing clouds above.</p><p>   And just like that, they’ve forgotten. About what? Doesn’t matter, for they’ve already forgotten. Must have been unimportant.</p><p>   “But how could I forget the one who reminds me of those things?” Eli asks, gently returning them to the earth. “And how could I forget the one who helped us win our battles? Were it not for your wares … well, need I say more?”</p><p>   To which Eliza chuckles as she nuzzles his hand, her voice like a sturdy cart laden with rich pastries. “You’ve always had a way with words, Mister Eli.”</p><p>   “You too, Miss Eliza. And please, just Eli.”</p><p>   “Then likewise; Eliza. Just Eliza.”</p><p>   The Hedge faintly smirks as he kisses the back of her hand, to which the Eluran also lightly smirks. Clerics and merchants: they both have a way with words. But there is only one way to find out if they share more in common.</p><p>   “Eliza, would you do me the honour of making me the happiest Hedge by taking another stroll on the beach with me?”</p><p>   “We can go on as many strolls, and anywhere you’d like. Just so long I get to hold your hand … and avoid other accidents.”</p><p>   Eli offers a smile as Eliza hops off the tree. He says: “Can’t guarantee we won’t meet with more accidents, but one thing I <em> can </em>be sure of is that I’ll be there with you. Will that suffice?”</p><p>   To which Eliza chuckles as she squeezes his hand. </p><p>   “ ... Maybe, just maybe. And then some,” she winks.</p><p>   Followed by more chuckles. Then warm, comfortable silence.</p><p>   What a happy little accident it turned out to be.</p><p>   That rock still deserves its punishment, though.<br/><br/></p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
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</p><p>
  <em> “About damn time, Monsieur Eli,” chuckles Dagonet in his seat of wicker. </em>
</p><p>   “It’s also about time … ” the owl trails off.</p><p>   He pauses. Waits.</p><p>   Then faithfully it comes.</p><p>   The riff of a xylobone in the distance as the sun touches the sea. </p><p>   It was certainly very spooky.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p><em> “And as the terrifying, foul-smelling, twiztid monsTROsity of a Cobblefright stepped into view … I unleashed a rain of arrows that pierced through each and every one of its evil bones! It sent it falling to the ground with a </em> THUMP <em> and a </em> CRASH<em>, becoming nothing more than a collection of scattered cartilage!” </em></p><p>    Ripples of gasps bubble forth from the riveted, raptured audience; a sea of glittering eyes fixed upon a debonair, bow-armed Jerbeen. Someone else is with him, though, sharing the well-lit stage -- a gorgeous, seated Luma pigeon holding two mallets with an assortment of bleached bones before her.</p><p>   Pez accompanies Lucky’s tale with strikes of her signature xylobone, conjuring disjointed, hollow notes as the Cobblefright ‘fell apart.’ </p><p>   ‘Fell apart’ in massive, glaring, beacon-in-the-night air-quotes. </p><p>   <em> S’all in the marketing! </em> Lucky winked and grinned once, to which Dagonet and Eli had shaken their heads. So much chaos in such a small, rodent body and Pez the Bard was always his accomplice. She was the one who suggested avoiding prefacing tales with promises of truth … for legal reasons regarding legitimacy. Just one less promise to fulfil.</p><p>  It is unthinkable, though, that they would deny amazing tales from ears that thirsted for wonder. That creative venture is right up their alley; they have the wits, the charm and the utter hutzpah for it. Extra fame never hurts, too, and the jingle of gold is a siren song.</p><p>   S’all in the marketing. Give the crowds what they want, even if they have to repeat the same stories every day for the past week since their arrival. </p><p>   Which is what they did. Naturally. </p><p>   “And with the terrible Cobblefright slain,” says Pez, standing from her seat and joining Lucky. “We venture deeper into the inky depths of the mysterium Avium. What happens next -- well, you already know -- ” </p><p>   A collection of giggles and chuckles ensue.</p><p>   “ -- will be told … right after this break!”</p><p>   And the two join hands as they bow and curtsy to the joyous applause of the dinner crowd. A little lacklustre compared to the first time, but that was to be expected.</p><p>   The curtain falls. The duo is obscured. They turn to look at each other.<br/><br/>  “Omigosh, you’re just … splendiferous!” hops Pez, stars in her eyes. “How do you come up with different but similar versions every time?” </p><p>   “Hey, you too!” grins Lucky, strolling towards the backstage prep room. “You come up with different yet amazing renditions every time! And no practice!”</p><p>   “D’oh, stop it, you. You’re gonna make me blush.”</p><p>   “Then, in that case, don’t stop on my account. My ears demand complimentary tribute!” </p><p>   They step into the dimmed room as a troupe of dancers brush past, not regarding the heroes; lost in their excitement. Lighted mirrors with dirt on the edges occupy one wall. Racks of assorted costumes stuff another two walls. The air is stuffy, candle-smoky and filmy powder drift about in wisps. It is also laced with an abundance of cheap perfumes.</p><p>   It is often places such as these that offer respite from the public eye. It’s tiresome at times despite the attention they desired and found. But the same could be said for any occupation, raucous fanfare or its lack thereof.</p><p>   “Water?” Lucky offers.<br/><br/>  “Yessy, pleasy.”</p><p>   Ripples and clinks. Glasses are passed. Nothing like water to soothe parched throats.  </p><p>   A chair creaks as Pez takes a seat, back towards the mirror. The same goes with the Jerbeen, quietly sitting beside her. He swirls the rest of his water before downing the rest of it. He then lifts it to his eye and examines its facets.</p><p>   “There is … a reason,” he murmurs.</p><p>   “For?”</p><p>   “How I can come up with different things every time, especially with our tales.”</p><p>   The Luma pigeon says nothing. A cue for him to continue. Lights dance like a spell as he peers through the glass.</p><p>   “I think about us a lot, y’know. The team, I mean Me, you, Dagonet and Eli. And I think about what happened to us, and the things we did. The trials we faced.”</p><p>   “Our story,” Pez says, to which Lucky nods.</p><p>   He gently takes off his hat and places it on the armrest. She reaches out and strokes the feather perched atop its wide red brim.</p><p>   “And sometimes,” he says as he lowers the glass. “I try to imagine how things would have been -- how my story would have been -- had I not met you lot in that dusty town. And I can say for a certainty that it would’ve been much less exciting, much more empty. Like that glass, with just teeny, tiny, itsy bitsy droplets of … ” </p><p>   “Stuff!”</p><p>   “ … stuff,” he agrees. “Boring stuff. Might’ve died, too.”</p><p>   “D’aww. For real though, that’s really sweet, Lucky. And same goes for me. And Eli, and Dagonet. If you didn’t join us, who else would have led the Aspect to the circle?”</p><p>   Lucky shrugs. “Probably one of the Raptor rangers that helped us.”</p><p>   “That is … a fair point. But not the point I was hoping for.”</p><p>   Music seeps through the boarded walls as the dancing troupe jives up a storm. Laughter overlaps the tunes as much as the rhythm of their synchronized footsteps. Ah, right. Tap dancers.</p><p>   “But yeah. I’m sorta grateful for how the way some things turned out. So I think about our story a lot, so as not to forget.”</p><p>   “But how does that help you come up with different versions every time? Unless … ”</p><p>   Pez gasps. Water sloshes from her cup.</p><p>   “Are you beginning to forget?!” she exclaims. “Lucky, n-n-n-no! You’re too young to begin forgetting things -- !” </p><p>   The Jerbeen panics and stands to appropriately coax her back to calmness, assuring her his mental faculties are functional and intact. He then walks back to the jug and refills both of their water glasses. The music outside is beginning to slow. A sign to return soon, perhaps?<br/><br/>  “I just don’t want others to forget what we did, and straight stories tend to lose their appeal pretty quick. But a story that has different versions -- ah! -- <em> that’ll </em>keep’em talking. And yeah, they’re gonna argue ‘bout what really happened and some truths will eventually be lost … but they’ll keep talking. They’ll keep remembering us. And that’s kinda what I want right now.”</p><p>   “Even if they won’t remember you for you?”<br/><br/>  “Never said I wanted them to remember me as me,” he smiles. “And ‘sides, I got a few friends who know me as I am. And I think that’s enough.”</p><p>   Pez giggles at that. “A secret to be kept. I do love some secrets. And just imagine, when we are old and grey, some adventurers look for us to find the true version.”</p><p>   “And what will we do when they come?” Lucky grins. </p><p>   “Give them yet another rendition?”</p><p>   “‘Cisely. ‘Cisely. And speaking of … ” </p><p>   A rapid chatter of staccatos enters the room as the tap dancers return from the stage. It is also at this point that the door swings open … revealing none other than their old Strig. His plumed helmet is tucked under his forearm, for he and it are inseparable.</p><p>   “Dagonet!” cheer the young duo, downing their glasses before approaching him.</p><p>   “Pez, Lucky,” limps Dagonet, his features adorned by a grandfatherly smile. “Just came backstage when I heard that xylobone part, just as I promised you two.”</p><p>   “But where’s Eli?” Pez asks.</p><p>   A smirk forms, overtaking the smile. “Let’s just say … that your ship has sailed. They’re walking hand-in-hand.”</p><p>   Pez gasps and grins again. Lucky crosses his arms, mirroring Dagonet’s expression.</p><p>   “About time … ” he murmurs.</p><p>   “Oui. About time."</p><p>   “And also about time you came onstage!”</p><p>   “Q-Quoi?” stutter-hoots Dagonet.</p><p>   But it was too late. Both performers grab him by the hands and pull him towards the waiting stage.</p><p>   “<em>Ralentir, ralentir!</em> My limp! Not so fast!” protests the Strig, mostly unheard.</p><p>   Red, fraying velvet curtains. Dull bronze tassels dangle like fruits. Dashing stagehands and rackety pulleys and overlapping voices bustle in chaotic tandem. They swivel just in time to dodge a prop barreling towards them. Coincidentally, it was, indeed, a barrel.</p><p>   Pex takes her usual seat. Lucky places Dagonet on one spot.</p><p>   “Ready?” the grinning Jerbeen asks, to which the old owl sighs.</p><p>   “At least I brought my helmet. And boy! Give me that mop! A fighter needs a spear!”</p><p>   And as the curtains rise to reveal, not two, but three performers on the stage, the crowd froths into a frenzy upon realizing who has joined the ranks. This is the first time Dagonet has appeared with Lady Pez and Master Lucky.</p><p>   He smiles from inside his helmet as he brandishes his gallant, somewhat dripping mop.</p><p>   Being recognized is nice. Very nice.</p><p>   Good to know that even an old Strig like him is memorable.</p><p>   But what is this? Who stands there at the far corner, holding hands and waving towards them?</p><p>   His smile grows into a grin as he smacks a nearby coatrack, otherwise known as "the resurrected Cobblefright's front leg." It was none other than Eli and Eliza, their faces as bright as the spotlights.</p><p>   To recognize is also equally nice.</p><p>   The gang's all here.</p><p>   To know that is just ... nice.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Seven wicker chairs face the glowing, blue sea; the stories of those seated upon them told in a day. </em>
</p><p>   The ship that will take them back from their vacation will arrive at the shores the next, bright dawn. Back to the forests, back to the green lands, and back to being the Heroes of Alderheart. It seems only fitting, then, that the waters bade goodbyes with aquamarine waves that sparkle on the sands.</p><p>   Something, something, bioluminescence. Eli and Bobby had been quick to tie this nightly phenomenon with some old Gaspardic tale; how the sea became the sky. Eliza and Martha have since then dozed off, their hands intertwined with their respective, chattering loves.</p><p>   Lyrics are written in lanternlight. The crowds in the Symphony would somehow understand the beauty Pez now beholds.</p><p>   Coins are stacked in haphazard spires as they faintly glitter in the shared illumina. Lucky is now their treasurer, as it would seem.</p><p>   As for Dagonet, well. He simply is. And being is quite nice. He should also get that will from Eliza, seeing how he didn't die fighting that day. He also makes a note to drop by the Avium, see how Kevin is doing.</p><p>   In fact, he openly suggests that. The rest of the gang turn to listen (Eli apologizes to Bobby, of course).</p><p>   "Sure, why not?" Lucky shrugs. "Maybe he's turned into a pyromaniac."</p><p>   "Come now, Lucky. It's the least we could do," Eli lightly chastises. </p><p>   "And I can show him my new songs!" Pez chimes. "Oooh, he'll be so thrilled!"</p><p>   "Did you get your songs onto record form, by the way?" Lucky asks.</p><p>   "Not yet! But I should! And we could also check on those two professors."</p><p>   "The ones who secretly like each other?"</p><p>   Pez nods like a jingling bell, and Lucky smirks as he rubs his hands. Eli shakes his head as Dagonet chuckles to himself.</p><p>   Even after all they've been through, their adventuring days have not come to pass. Not now. Not yet.</p><p>   But until then ... </p><p>   Their story shall continue.</p><p>   </p>
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